


you're a century moving much too quickly

by bigelows



Category: Gentleman Jack (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/F, Feelings, POV Second Person, ann walker is beautiful like sunshine, anne lister is a mess, but also no feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-12 17:19:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19233640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigelows/pseuds/bigelows
Summary: Your sense of direction, it seems, has gone.(or, five times Anne Lister was not hopelessly in love with Ann Walker and the one time she was)





	you're a century moving much too quickly

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Gentleman Jack.

_Running through your head it’s like an ocean_  
_With the amplitude_  
_The frequency of momentary openness_  
_The brokenhearted open ocean running through_

_\- "Fourth Zone of Gaits", Young Jesus_

 

 

  _v. just underneath the way home_

You love your Aunt Anne more than almost anything. Though at this exact moment in time, aboard a rocking ship, frozen, starving, you’d love nothing more than a hot bath and several glasses of sherry.

 

Mariana was right, as she is about more things than you’re willing to admit, you are always running. From your lovers, from your family, but mostly from yourself. It isn’t often that events conspire to make you run towards any of those things but you must acknowledge that there are exceptions to every rule.

 

Marian’s letter unsettled you in a way you hadn’t thought possible, especially in light of Dr. Kenny’s evaluation. Even thinking that you could never see your Aunt again is enough to bring you close to tears. The letter’s contents and all it didn’t say, about a friend that you are unwilling to name, the real reason you’re on the run, opened a chasm inside of you; one you refuse to acknowledge.

 

You’re upset about your Aunt.

 

Though with each beat of a horse’s hoof, each mile at sea, your grief seems to grow smaller bit by bit.

 

So here you are, on a ship bound for England, with your two incompetent servants and a nasty headache that won’t let up.

 

Because you’re on this ship for Aunt Anne and only Aunt Anne and if your mind sometimes drifts to Scotland and all that can be found there, you blame it on the harsh, unending journey.

 

Your sense of direction, it seems, has gone.

 

_iv. i have begun continuations_

When you move into your flat in Copenhagen, so fashionable, so Scandinavian, so bare, you think that you’ve made it.

 

You have wealthy, influential friends. You have casual conversations with the Queen, with Princesses and Dukes and Countesses and any number of Ladies. They all look at you with interest, not fear or derision, and yes, you think, this is exactly what you wanted.

 

For here you are Upper Class and English and eccentric, but all of these things combined raise your social stock instead of inhibiting it.

 

There are nights when you come home after entertaining your new friends, Thomas opens your door and you see the empty walls, the silent rooms that lay beyond and you feel a sudden urge to run as far away as you can, as quickly as you can.

 

You stay, deliberately, though you are never quite at ease.

 

For here, there is no one to distract you. There is no one to laugh at your jokes or ask for your opinion and listen to the aforementioned opinion when you give it and lead the conversation on a journey covering various political, economic, and social topics of your choosing.

 

It is just you, Eugénie’s rants about Thomas, Thomas’ awkward silence, and a dreadful loneliness that you can’t describe.

 

For this is everything you have ever wanted: you are in Copenhagen for the winter, you will go to St. Petersburg and onto Moscow in the Spring.

 

Except you close your eyes and you see blonde hair and happiness and know that, there, is truly everything you have ever wanted.

 

Your heart beats faster.

 

You stay awake into the early morning to spite it.

 

 

_iii. i will dream you other forms_

You have never been good at comforting others.

 

As a child, when Sam or Marian would cry out in pain or anger, you’d merely roll your eyes and leave them be.

 

With most of your previous lovers, their first emotional meltdown usually corresponded with your informing them that you were no longer interested. No comfort needed, then.

 

(You are not going to think of Mariana, not now).

 

So how you’ve found yourself awake at half 2 in the morning, comforting Ann Walker as she recites the Lord’s Prayer over and over and over again, you frankly have no idea.

 

You do think, as you drag your hand over her shoulder and down her arm for the umpteenth time, that maybe you’re getting the hang of it. Being there for someone, supporting them as they go through an emotional ordeal that you can’t really fathom.

 

Ann thinks what you do together is repugnant.

 

Your hand stops its trek down her arm.

 

Catherine is shushing her, half asleep.

 

She whispers yet another Our Father.

 

You bring your hand back to her shoulder.

 

You can hear the clock in the landing.  

 

You really don’t know what you’re doing here.

 

If your heart skips a beat when Ann turns to you, eyes rimmed with tears, hair wild around her, you think the lack of sleep is getting to you. You might have to call Dr. Day to get it checked.

 

When you do fall asleep, you dream of Ann– bright and beautiful and “yes, yes, yes, yes” as infinite as her prayers.

 

You awaken to the nightmare, again.

_ii. see time erode so easily_

You are nothing if not extremely punctual. You keep meticulous records of each of your walks, plan your day to the minute, and have never been late of your own volition.

 

(One class at the Manor School, Eliza’s head on your pillow, doesn’t count as it was many years since.)

 

Dr. Belcombe will be here in 20 minutes, you know it takes at least that long to wash and dress, but Ann’s mouth is on yours (she tastes like you), her grip on your arm is tantalizing (she means to take your watch), her hips are against your own (insisting) and you are drowning.

 

Your hand drifts to pull up her night dress, your fingers not hesitating, they know their way by now.

 

She is kissing your neck and you feel her breath hitch (you’re addicted), she moans (you moan), your fingers have found their rhythm (beautiful).

 

She climaxes around you, you kiss her mouth to muffle her; you have quite forgotten yourselves.

 

You pick up your discarded watch, see you now have 10 minutes until Dr. Belcombe is to arrive.

 

She is a beautiful girl, you think, you are helping her because helping her means she’ll marry you and if she marries you, you’ll have her money and her companionship.

 

She rolls onto her back at your side, smiles up at you, touches her fingers to your lips (you are awed by her), but you mustn’t be distracted.

 

You came to York to see Dr. Belcombe and only for that.

 

You’ll be late only this once.

 

  _i._ _and you are bleeding greener grasses_

When Mrs. Priestley barges into the library, your hand under Ann’s petticoats, you think the plot is up.

 

Ann, sweet and innocent Ann, with her fortune hunting, incompetent tribe of relations would never choose you over them. And Mrs. Priestley, previously one of your biggest supporters in all of Halifax, will no doubt inform the lot of them by the end of the week.

 

That she was wrong about you, that you’re preying on a young girl, and what everyone has always said about you is true. You should not be trusted in the company of other women.

 

It is true, you are after her money, but you keep forgetting your aims. You want a companion, someone who loves you, someone to spend your evening hour beside. And you know you’ve found that. You just never expected your own feelings to play a part.

 

So, Mrs. Priestley catches you, and you lock those emotions away, never to be thought of again. You are practical and you know this match is a smart one, she has the means if not the rank.

 

Your Aunt is happy.

 

You are not a man.

 

Then Ann starts laughing, you smile at her, and you feel those pesky emotions escaping again.

 

She invites you upstairs, and you push them aside.

 

You follow her.

 

You are bursting with hope.

 

 

\--

_i._ _there’s a brightness everywhere_

You descend from the carriage as quickly as you can, leaving Eugénie in your dust and her impending vomit.

 

Throwing vague instructions behind you as you walk towards Ann’s cousin’s or Aunt’s or someone’s home, you put on your hat and steel yourself to be as charming as possible.

 

You have aims, money and stability, and the girl is already under your spell. Never mind that she’s all you’ve thought about since leaving for London, you traveled for days to the Lake District to secure her hand and her inheritance. That’s all.

 

The manservant allows you into the hall and directs you to the garden at the back of the house. It isn’t as ostentatious as Crow Nest, but not nearly as shabby as Shibden (her money could fix it up, you remind yourself), though not to your taste.

 

At the door to the garden you pause, for there she is. Her hair is in a bit of a looser curl than usual, she’s in the purple dress you’ve always favored, and the sun is hitting her from just above. She is bright and shining and yes, you realize, you came for this moment. Her back to you, a number of possibilities ahead.

 

She turns around, her grin automatic and pure and bright as the sun and your chest clenches.

 

You acknowledge it, welcome it, smile because of it.

 

Your gondola pin is gleaming over her heart.

 

“Miss Lister, what a surprise! I’m so glad to see you.”

 

_Fin._

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Title and all subtitles taken from Young Jesus' amazing album "The Whole Thing is Just There".


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